


Briarheart

by Amethyst97Skye



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Abortion, Diary/Journal, F/M, Forsworn, Hagraven, Heartbreak, Journal Entries, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Prisoner of War, Secrets, Stockholm Syndrome, Submission, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-09-26 20:51:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 43
Words: 6,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9921656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amethyst97Skye/pseuds/Amethyst97Skye
Summary: The cover is splattered with blood, the pages singed black and brown, but the green ink shines through, and it smells of Juniper.





	1. Self-Preservation

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: There is minor use of swearing; various applications of torture, though they are not described in-depth; and references to abortion and suicide. I do not take these matters lightly. Please refrain from reading further if any of the above troubles you.
> 
> UPDATE: Ondolemar and Rulindil will never be explicitly mentioned, but I encourage you to use your imagination because they served to inspire this.

  _I write with no goal in mind, savour my own self-preservation._

 

The following accounts depict my life while in custody of the Thalmor,

Agents of the Aldmeri Dominion, in the year before I escaped to The Reach. 


	2. Embrace the Inevitable

I know not how I came to Skyrim, whether by land or sea or some supernatural means, for I first woke within one of six cells of a ruined fort.

I later came to learn this fort once went by the name of ‘Northwatch Keep’, which it has since reclaimed, but it has been uninhabitable for several decades, if not centuries.

This is, as I came to realise, where a Thalmor’s reputation came to die.


	3. Family

A single Wizard, in command of five foot soldiers, were tasked with repairing the fort for operations beyond my knowledge, and I was one of three prisoners expected to aid this impossible endeavour.

I cannot, in good conscious, disclose the names of the people I came to see as friends, people I chose to accept and adopt as part of a family.

They would surely perish, should anyone ever read this, but until such a time as and when I can face my memories, I willingly indulge in this selfish vice to ease my mind, body and soul of all that we endured.

I will thus refer to them as ‘R’, ‘H’ and ‘O’ as necessary.


	4. Peril

I will admit to being complete illiterate, and uneducated in the common tongues of Skyrim.

It annoyed the soldiers greatly that they were forced to sign and gesture, which the Wizard took as a personal insult, much to my peril.

I quickly learned to copy the actions of my fellow prisoners who, at first, believed me struck dumb by my injuries, of which there were plenty, but none as significant as the blow I sustained to my head.

The scars still burn at my touch.


	5. Satisfactions

The Wizard saw us rise every day at dawn and, after being assigned jobs and completing them to our overseer’s satisfactions, we would receive our morning rations.

Only once the sun set were we permitted to retire, with a second serving of rations.

We were first assigned to clean what passed for a kitchen, dining room, bedroom and barracks.

Then we each completed a series of tasks to, as I understood it, determine where our skills lay.

I proved myself an acceptable cook and was thus assigned to the kitchen early to make breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

There was always at least one soldier watching me, and I later discovered it was a highly sort after shift, due to the fact that the kitchen was constantly heated.


	6. Permission

We were not permitted to eat in the dining room.

If our services were not required that day, we were left in our cells with naught but a bucket, a tray, and a bed of straw thinner than even the rags we wore.

The keep, I realised, was surrounded with snow and, as such, there was never a lack of water.

On the rare occasion we got to bathe, the water was always freezing.

I was given the great indignity of bathing alone.

Yet another sort after shift.


	7. Words of Power

The elves – for they were all Altmer in appearance – spoke in Altmeris, broken by snippets of what I learned to be _Ald_ meris, and even the occasional comment in Ehlnofex.

We are all "unculturered swine" to them.

With time and effort, I came to understand what many a word meant and, given my assumed state of intelligence, the soldiers freely conversed around me about anything that took their fancy.

I also learned many a language from my friends, though to reveal them would be the same as cutting out their hearts.

I take great pride in the fact that this knowledge remains unknown to my captors to this day.


	8. Time

I became better acquainted with the many languages of Tamriel through, unfortunately, another prisoner.

They will be known, henceforth,  as ‘M’.

They were, at first, brutally tortured.

This was repeated.

Regularly.

We had all received the same treatment, though I to a significantly lesser degree.

I was not worth their time.

But M readily joined our little family, and we shared all that we could when the Wizard denied us our rations.

This caught us by surprise, once.

None of us were fooled twice.


	9. An Exception

I did not, at first, think much of M’s departure.

On occasion, if the weather was ‘serviceable’ the soldiers would accompany one or two prisoners out at a time to mine, or to conduct other menial labour.

When M did not return, our indifference grew into apprehension... and our concern gave way to horrors we could scarcely imagine.

They had threatened us with death, and things far worse besides, but we knew that, without us, they would be forced to do all that they thought beneath them.

M was an exception.


	10. Courage

When I was bid to take the Wizard his evening meal, I was escorted to his study.

It was sparsely decorated, though there was a chest of shelves taller than me, an entire wall painted crimson and gold aglow with books.

When he dismissed the guard, and after I had received our assignments for the following day, I asked him – in his own language – what had befallen M.

I do not, to this day, know where the foolish courage came from.

I blinked, but I met his eyes, and not for the first time.

He fixed his own upon me as if I was a Torchbug under one of his crystal glasses.

I was well acquainted with their use.

We were gagged to silence our ear-splitting squeals.

Just as the silence grew almost unbearable, he asked me a question, in his own language.

"When did you regain your ability to speak?"

His voice belayed no emotion, a trick I learned to imitate well.

"I never lost it," was my reply, a surprisingly satisfactory answer.

He had not electrocuted me, at least, as he was wont to do with his inferiors.

We learned to ride through the pain.

His pause was accompanied by a formidable frown.

It was his default expression.

"When did you learn to speak Altmeris?"

"I am still learning," I answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for this entry came from Carol Ann Duffy's 'Little Red Cap'.


	11. Intimidation

He stood, which served to intimidate me greatly.

Nords, on average, stand around six feet.

Though I have the appearance of a Nord, my height is similar to that of a Bosmer, a Wood Elf, at only five-and-a-half feet.

Altmer are, by design, taller than even the tallest of Nords, and the Wizard – I did not his name then – stood at least three-quarters of a foot taller than I.

Rather than back up against the door, or fall to my knees in fear, I remained perfectly stationary.

My legs refused to move, my knees refused to bend, and my spine stood at attention, somehow strengthened by the lashes I had receive three days prior for spilling the last of the Alto Wine.

Even now, I cannot decide if that annoyed him... or amused him.

He had never cared much for wine.


	12. Imprisoned

I will never forget the colour of his eyes, the heat of his stare, or the power it commanded.

The Wizard was the first elf I had seen with eyes akin to a hawk’s.

They were entirely predatory, not a sickly, sallow yellow or a repulsive, poisonous green.

They were like geodes of Amber, as I imagine it to be, the crystallised remains of tree sap hundreds of millions of years old.

He seemed ageless to me.

But, as to what had been imprisoned, and fossilised within, I could not – and still, to this day – cannot say.

Sometimes, when I close my eyes, his are all I can see.

It exasperates my anger, my hatred, my rage.

Why?

Because I should not want to see him.

I should not - _do_ not.

But I do.

Will I never be free?

Will any of us?

 


	13. The Agony of Uncertainty

It was three days before we spoke further.

I had since told my friends that, under no uncertain terms, M would not be returning to us.

When I brought his dinner, he... thanked me.

Then he commanded me to close the door.

And lock it behind me.

I was then ordered to take the seat opposite his desk.

To sit before him, as if I - though nowhere near his equal - was worthy of his time.

This brought me no illusion of comfort.

It filled me with a cold, unearthly dread that threatened to freeze my blood.

I would not put him above, or beneath, such... methods.

At the time, I had yet to experience his ire, but I knew that behind me - behind the curtain of stone at my back - was the den I spent hours, days even, howling in unbearable agony for reason I cannot, and never want to, remember.


	14. My First Mistake

When I told him I would rather remain standing – he was still taller than me – he smirked at me.

 _I know everything_ , it said. _You are an open book to me._

It served as an invisible dagger, forged from ice.

He plunged it into my heart, and secondly to both of my knees.

He held my gaze unblinkingly.

By some miracle, I remained standing.

After tending to a potion he had left to steep, he asked me, at length, after my abilities.

My interests.

My likes.

My dislikes.

My friends.

...My family.

_And I answered him._

I admitted to him that I was illiterate.

I told him how I had come to understand his tongue (by ear and educated guesses made in close observation of his inferiors).

And when he asked if I wanted to learn, I said I did.

"What can you offer me in return?"

"Anything. Everything."

When he dismissed me, only then did I realise I had taken his proffered seat.


	15. Lost in Translation

As ordered, I returned to him at dawn.

With but five soldiers to his name – which he had not given, and I had not asked for – he was severely understaffed.

He was, in his terms, in need of an ‘assistant’.

I outright refused to torture and interrogate my friends.

That made him laugh.

It was not a nice sound.

I both loath, and long, to hear it again.

It made my ears bleed, and my heart swell.

I have, I think, almost forgotten it.

Almost.

‘You consider those imbeciles your friends?’

His derision and disbelief was thicker, and heavier, than the stone walls surrounding us.

He then proceeded to ‘dispel my ignorance’ by ‘warning’ me that, if forced to choose between my life and their own, they would most assuredly choose their own.

It seemed to confuse him when I declared that I expected nothing less.


	16. Regret

We had discussed this at length on many an occasion.

When one of us was tortured to the brink of death, if there was not a perceptible amount of certainty that we could free ourselves, or that the abused and the interferers would regain their health, then the others should do their best to ignore the abuse.

We could help them recover as and when the opportunity present itself.

And, little by little, we succeeded.

No.

We survived.

It many ways, I have come to regret agreeing to uphold such a vow.

And, in just as many ways, I agree that we did right by each other.

We all took turns ignoring the plight of the broken.

To be broken was, in many way, to die beyond the means Death itself employed.

After all, there were so many things worse than death.

I learned this well.

We all did.


	17. My Second Mistake

Thus, under the Wizard’s careful employ, I learned how to read and write.

In Cyrodilic.

The most common and widespread language in all of Tamriel.

He would dictate unimportant messages to me.

Requisitions for supplies, reports on weather, and the like.

I would read to him books he deemed worthy of both mine and his attention.

Once, I was even praised on the rapidness of my progress.

I did something - _said_ something - then that I cannot, even now, bring myself to regret.

Before I left, I dipped into a curtsy worthy of a king.

And I said, quite clearly, ‘Thank you, Master’.

 


	18. Damaged Pride

If he replied, I cannot recall the words.

I wish I could remember the expression on his face.

I tell myself I said it with sarcasm, that the rapport between us allowed me such liberty.

Sometimes, I believe it.

But I cannot remember enough to support this claim.

I thought nothing of my slip, not at the time.

I regret giving him that power over me.

I tell myself I did it unconsciously.

Does that mean I was willing?

That it felt natural to me?

...I cannot recall who told me, or when, but they said pride was the worst of the seven sins.

Pride was the one sin you could not beat, no matter how hard you tried.

Pride, they said, will be your undoing.

It is, perhaps, the only thing we ever had in common.

Our stubborn, insufferable pride.


	19. An Intellectual Inquiry

Time passed.

I forget how much.

But I remember his summons.

"Clean this mess up," he demanded.

And I complied.

I thought it a gift.

He had given me permission to browse through his ever expanding library.

His shelves were overcrowded and he had far more important matters to attend to.

What they were, I could only guess.

I learned, upon his return, that a new prisoner, ‘U’, had arrived.

His day, it seemed, had not gone well.

That would soon change.

I was departing to cook dinner, prepared for a sleepless night, when he inquired as to how I sorted his books.

My stomach cramped with hunger.

But I complied.

Why?

Because I desired his approval more.


	20. Foreign Comforts

His filing system was insufficient and ineffective, and I said as such.

I first sorted his tomes into three broad categories: Arcane, History and Other (this included those I was unfamiliar with, most of which lacked a distinguishing cover, or a translatable title).

I then separated them according to School (for Arcane), Region (for History) and all, including ‘Other’, were ordered alphabetically.

I was without thought for myself, or for anyone else.

I was far too comfortable in my own skin.

I was far too comfortable around _him_.

Only now do I understand why I was not tortured for talking down to him.

They distributed their wrath and boredom between us in equal measure.

No one died that way.

I thought it was the Orcs, in their strongholds, that have the 'Blood Price'.

I did not know the practise transcended racial, and cultural, boundaries.

But it did not - _does_ not - matter.

He had me dancing in the palm of his hand.

My heart skipped beats, and a cold chill ran down my spine, when he smirked.

He praised me, my qualities, though what they were I cannot recall.

I am better off without them, anyway.

I am, I say, better off without _him_.


	21. Hindsight

He stopped me before I could leave.

He asked me, twice, what I had called him.

I referred to him as 'Sir'.

He slapped me, his fingers frostbitten with ice, his hand a steel-studded leather whip.

He grabbed me by the throat, lifted me off my feet, and imprisoned me against the door.

My hands instinctively grappled and clawed with his.

Mine were cold, caked with broken, dead flesh.

His were hot, a burning brand, impossibly smooth to the touch.

"I'm sorry, Master!" I cried.

Between my tears, I saw him smirk.

He lowered me to the ground.

He kissed my tear and sweat stained cheek.

He told me I was a 'good girl'.

I know I had help with dinner, but I was lost in my own thoughts.

I cut myself.

Twice.

I still bear the scars, faded as they are.

I cannot recall what questions were asked of me, and, if I answered, I cannot recall how I replied.

Perhaps it is for the best.

What is it they say?

What you do not know cannot hurt you?

Such foolish naivety.

Hindsight is both a great blessing… and a terrible curse.


	22. The Master's Apprentice

It was as if nothing ever happened.

I tried to pretend, wearing a high collar to hide my bruises.

I do not know whether my friends bought my act or not.

Ultimately, it did not matter.

As per usual, I brought him his dinner at the appointed time.

This time, however, was different.

He bid me to join him with my own.

I had far simpler fare than him but, at the time, I was too conflicted to care.

He wanted _me_ to sit with _him_ , despite never dining with his soldiers.

When he asked, I again explained to him my method of organisation.

In had become natural, now, to indulge him.

Then he tested the extent of my knowledge on all matter arcane.

At the time, I was… proud, happy even, to have impressed him, if only for a moment.

My lessons, he said, would begin tomorrow.

I thought he meant magic.

He _did_ teach me magic.

But I was entirely unaware of the hidden curriculum he had, I now realised, spent an undue amount of time planning.


	23. A Novice's Naivety

We started with simplistic spells, such as Candlelight.

I did not learn how to manipulate magic, not until he assessed I had a firm grasp on how to manipulate my Magicka.

He did not, I note now, teach me any spells I could have used in offensive, or even defensive, circumstances.

At the time, I did not care.

Magic was utterly new and served to completely overwhelm me.

I was enthralled by it.

We focused particularly on my ability to duel cast.

 _It will be of great use to you later in life_ , he said.

And I believed him.

Eventually, I learned the most basic of the Destruction and Restoration spells: Flames and Healing.

I could, if demanded of me, heal minor injuries and light a candle.

I had next to no knowledge of how to extend the flames I conjured.

They extended no further than an inch beyond my fingertips.

Nor could I displace my Magicka.

Not evenly, throughout my body, as grievous wounds would later demand.

That knowledge came far later.

From an entirely different source.


	24. Submission

It was the middle of winter.

Or, was it summer?

The fort was always covered in ice, and the ground always covered in snow.

I got used to the cold.

Then I got used to the heat.

Regardless, I had no way of knowing how much time had passed.

Between dawn and dusk, the days blurred together.

I liked the routine.

It made me feel safe.

I do know that one morning, when I brought U breakfast, they were gone.

I thought them suicidal.

Now I know them to be smart.

Smart because they were successful.

The soldiers came back in an obscene mood.

It helped, I think, that U did not become one of our family.

Not like M.

As a rule, U trusted no one, least of all prisoners claiming to offer aid.

It saved their life, their soul.

When I told him I had never counted U among my friends, or as a member of our family, he knew we had not orchestrated their escape.

I thanked him, on my hands and knees, for not punishing us.

I was scrubbing the floor at the time.

I forget which room.

It did not matter.

They all belonged to him.

“You are a good girl,” he said. “You are _my_ good girl.”


	25. Muffle Me

Nothing rose his spirits, not until - to his delight - I succeeded in casting the spells Muffle and Magelight.

He already knew them, of course.

He bought the tomes especially for me.

Magelight took great force of mind to cast, and Muffle constantly depleted my Magicka reserves, but I was well... rewarded.

He whispered in my ear: “Congratulations, my dear.”

He kissed my cheek, his fingers a feather-light caress around my neck.

I forgot about the bruises, the nails that bit into my flesh.

I regret my weakness, the way I moaned ‘Master’.

Excited, aroused... unsure.

He had been kind to me, treated me decently, whereas everyone else – even my own family – either treated me with disdain, or acted as if I were invisible.

I admit, I... paid them back in kind.

He groaned, enclosed me in his arms and he said, if I was a ‘good girl’, he would 'Muffle my pleas'.

He could cast the spell four, sometimes five, times over before I felt anything like fatigue within him.

He used the time – every precious second – wisely.

I look back on those minutes as some of the worst, and best, of my life.

They brought a shy smile to my face, tepid tears to my eyes, a blade to my broken heart.

I cried in silence where no one would see.


	26. Life's Greatest Illusion

He started small, and started me off small.

I was the picture of innocence to him.

It gave him great pleasure to... _educate_ me.

And it - it was a great pleasure to _learn_.

What I did, what he so obviously enjoyed, was forbidden for any member of the Thalmor.

I never asked because I already knew.

His soldiers respected him.

He was, according to them, a Mer to be admired.

That was why they behaved.

He changed the prison records to ensure it.

"They are afraid," he explained, "of what would happen if word spread, claiming that they willing slept with a human."

When I first... arrived, they could not decide if I was a Breton or a Nord.

"A Breton would have been borderline acceptable. For a tryst. But you... are now defined as a Nord."

He made me untouchable with the flourish of a silver quill.

A forbidden treasure reserved solely for him.

"It is in my best interests, as well as yours," he said.

"Ours," I replied, because I believed in his illusions.

We all did because it never occurred to them. 

They never paused to consider, not even in their wildest daydreams, that their leader – all that they aspired to be – was fucking a human like his life depended upon it.

Sometimes, I wonder if it did.


	27. Confidence

He liked it when I called him ‘Master’.

He loved to punish me whenever I dared to mention Talos.

It was, in my mind at least, all in jest.

I have never been the religious sort.

I rarely prayed back then.

If I did, it was more of a miserable preaching monologue.

I would immediately apologise afterwards.

I did, however, believe in the Nine Divines.

Nine, not Eight.

Nine.

And they had greater concerns than me.

He took that away, along with my fear, my sense of self-preservation, locking them in his chest at the foot of his bed.

I could have opened it while he slept, but I never saw the need.

I forgot who he was, what he was, what he stood for, what he believed.

I was but a grain of sand in the hourglass of Time, a means to sate his boredom until the day he was called back to the Embassy.

It was unlikely to happen, but he was far too talented a mage to waste.

They would come, one day.

Until then, we would play.

It was against his better judgement, I am sure, when he told me how he came to be in Northwatch Keep.

It was a secret I promised to take to my grave.

He never made that promise to me.


	28. Cursed

In the middle of the night, when everyone was asleep, I told him stories.

The fanciful tales reminded me I was an outcast.

An outsider.

An alien to this Altmer and his world.

Now, they remind me of his voice.

They remind me of his expertly lithe fingers, with skin so smooth and strength so sure.

They remind me of his eagerness, an almost feverish desperation, to prize every seemingly insignificant detail from lips.

They remind me how I obeyed his every command.

I obeyed because, Mara as my witness, I fell in love with the bastard.

If he was afflicted with this curse, I never noticed the symptoms.


	29. In Sickness...

We all got sick from time to time; a passing cold or, occasionally, a more serious flu.

I was often tasked with tending their needs, be they prisoner or soldier.

When I was sick, however, none but the prisoners would come near me, and even they were keeping their distance.

Only now do I understand why.

I could not eat, could not sleep, and kept throwing up what little I managed to force down my throat.

I lost weight, I lost energy, I lost my spark of passion.

But I regained it, little by little.

O had to learn how to use the kitchen, and they took over my duties, but there were typically two guards watching them at any one time.

They even fixed me a potion that, supposedly, cured diseases.

It did nothing.

R then declared that I was not 'ill', that my sickness was 'natural'.

Of course, I did not believe them.

Not at the time.

I owe them an apology.

I was rude, weak, depressed, distressed -

I took it as a sign he cared, giving me thicker robes that kept me warm.

They were given to the others prisoners, as well, and thicker blankets were assigned to the soldiers.

Now, I realise he was just protecting his investment.

His soldiers got beds.

We slept on straw-covered, cold, unyielding stone.


	30. Pleas

I woke in his room one night, unaware of when, or how, I arrived.

Not on his bed, but on the rack he reserved for 'entertaining his guests', behind the curtain comprised of stone.

I was less than a guest.

I was a prisoner, a slave... a slut.

 _His_ slut.

He did not believe that.

He did not believe _me_.

He told me I had collapsed while tending the garden.

He told me I was pregnant.

 _I_ told him that was impossible.

He had made sure of that.

He supplied the potion I drank with my rations.

The herbs were widely available, cheap to procure, and used for a great assortment of reasons.

"For protection," he said.

I would drink it, thinking of him, toasting to him, to our _relationship_.

I remember the taste, like Death, corrosively cold and bitter.

Northwatch was always cold.

At any given time it was either snowing, raining, or hailing.

The lost souls stranded in the Ghost Sea howled constantly.

Even in summer, ice clung to the walls, hung from the ceiling, and coated the floor.

Weather permitting, we would plant a small garden within the fort, but very little survived.

Tending it was one of my favourite chores.

When the heatwave came, we were unprepared.

The prison flooded.

Most everything was either spoiled or destroyed.

Water was rationed.

The soldiers blamed us when the stores ran dry.

They charged us with repairing our own cells as punishment.

He did not listen to my pleas.

 


	31. Proposition

The chances, he said, of him impregnating me with correct use of the potion were small.

Ridiculously small.

 _Impossibly_ small.

He was certain, I had ‘cheated’.

I promised I had not.

I would never, not even if it meant my freedom.

I did not use those exact words, but I no longer considered myself a prisoner.

I no longer considered myself imprisoned.

He ignored me.

Everyone ignored me.

Now I knew why.

"You will begin to show, _soon_ , but I have the answer to our problems."

 

Another potion.

A poison.

I have since learned that they are the same, made with the exact same blend of herbs as the _potion_ that was supposed to prevent this.

The second was just a stronger version, meant to kill an unborn child rather than an inert embryo.

“If I release you, will you drink?” he asked.

I am ashamed of my answer.


	32. Punishment

He gave me no choice.

If I had not betrayed him, then I would drink  to protect his reputation.

If I refused, then I was guilty.

I was not, and told him so.

I did not tell him how I had longed for a child, how I longed to bear _his_ child, to see us disappear until this gods-forsaken war came to an end.

I know, now, that a world without war and strife is, by our very nature, impossible.

I wanted to tell him, but I did not, for I knew he did not want what I wanted.

Why would he?

He ordered me to kill his child.

I used to think that it was not his fault, that he was as much a prisoner as I.

He could not run away anymore than I could escape because... we did not want to.

We were willing, ignorant of the outside world, and we have no one to blame but ourselves.

When I refused (rather, I stared in shell-shocked silence) the bastard paralysed me and shoved the poison down my throat.

He nursed my neck – the neck the kissed, licked, nipped and caressed – forcing me to swallowed.

He slapped a hand over my mouth, the gloves too thick to bite through.

The pain lingered even after he left.


	33. Seeing Red

I did not learn, not for several months, that the poison takes a minimum of three days to work.

It can take as many as seven.

I was not wholly conscious, and I am glad of it.

But, I do attest to having heard a cry.

I cannot tell, not from my memories, if it was male or female.

And now… I will never know.

When I sleep, I imagine a girl, and our screams meld in my dreams.

I hold her close as she cries, comforting her in our last moments.

Inseparable, as we should have been.

When I wake, I wonder if he saw himself in the sea beneath my feet.

All I know for certain is the colour.

I still feel the waves, hands that burn and brand in fire with fingers that bite and freeze my flesh.

Sunlight beckons me and I greet the red sky with a smile.

A storm is coming.


	34. Surrender

I awoke to daylight, and found myself surrounded by snow, thistles and trees.

I made no effort to stir, savour to turn my eyes from the sun.

Kynareth played the with clouds until I was quite concealed from Magnus' eyes.

A thin slip of a fox curled up against my chest, and I stroked his ears until long after his snuffling breaths fell silent.

I heard nothing.

Not the wind blowing through the trees, the birds singing in the canopy, or the heart beating in my chest.

My senses were numb to the world.

I wanted nothing more than to sleep, just like him, to fall back into that blissful oblivion and know no more.

To forget my nightmare and focus on the red sea rippling beneath me.

I was not given the opportunity to surrender so easily.


	35. Broken

When I again woke, it was to the smell of roasting meat and the sound of a crackling fire.

I had been found by Forsworn scavengers.

After asserting that they meant me no harm, which I was under no delusion to outright believe, they told me how they had found me.

"In the snow," they said.

Naked.

Bloodied.

Broken.

Four injuries made by arrows, a flesh wound made by some kind of dagger, and severe ‘storm scars’ laced across my back and round my legs.

They had, while I slept, removed the spell-bound binding around my lips, but even with the aid of water – which one of them kindly consent to drink before me – my voice was parched, like rusted metal grating across stone.

I could not ask them what became of the fox cub.


	36. Dead Already

Thalmor, I said, because I dared not speak his name.

There was an influx of questions.

"When did they capture you?"

"Why were you captured?"

"Where were you held?"

"Did they follow you?"

In time, I relayed everything.

I had no energy to cry, my voice was incapable of breaking further, and my body was already broken beyond repair.

"How did you escape?"

‘Twas a woman, the only woman, who asked, the same woman who told me my body was barren.

Later, behind a closed curtain of cloth, she told me that, if I made any further attempt to fill it, I would most likely die.

"I am already dead," I said.


	37. Miscalculation

I refused their offer of sanctuary, not wholly believing them.

Not really wanting them to believe _me_.

I kept thinking 'This is just a dream' but I knew it was not so.

The wounds were real.

The scars would never heal.

"I want," I told them, "one of two things: to free the friends I left behind… or death. Whichever comes first."

Yes... whichever comes first.

Words cut far deeper than steel, and scar more grievously than an estranged lover's lightning.

Magic cuts right to your heart, leaving you vulnerable to every attack.

It is like - like trying to define the face of your worst nightmare.

Mine change daily.

I suspect he used Illusion magic to send me into a frenzy.

It _is_ the school of magic the Altmer are most naturally adept at, and inclined towards.

His obsessive devotion to Destruction is, however, not unusual, and I fear sadism is a common trait among the Thalmor.

That I escaped with my life was a dreadful miscalculation on his part.


	38. Target In Sight

I was convinced that my death would be a waste.

I was not inclined to believe them.

Not at first.

But, provided I consented to live by their rules (which I have yet to find a problem with) they would help me regain my health, so that I might make the faithful journey back to Northwatch Keep.

I still aspire to that goal.

I was introduced to their Sharman, and she set about tending the more severe of my injuries.

She could do nothing for my womb, and I did not want her to.

"If what you say is true," she said, "then I would take you on as my apprentice."

It took time, _too much time_ , to get used to the title, old and new, familiar and foreign as it was.

She gave me a set of clothes, enchanted armour.

They repelled the cold, but I still felt frozen, sleeping alone.

Inevitably, I would wake and return to my cell.

They had to bind my tent shut to stop me from sleep walking.

It did not end well.

"What are you searching for?" she asked.

When I had an answer for her, I had long since stopped sleep walking.


	39. Family

Over dinner, of which I was steadily regaining my appetite for, she explained that the number of Bretons in The Reach were greatly exaggerated.

They drew together to raid caravans, attack patrols, and scout territory so they seemed to be everywhere at once.

But, in actual fact, they are dying out.

Of the woman that have taken up the Forsworn banner, most are mothers, and these duties occupy most of their time and energy.

I, however, unable to bear children, with a proficient grasp of magic, could be a great asset to their people.

If I could save even one sick child, I would do whatever they asked, and consider my life well spent.

I may have failed my own son – or daughter, I like to think I would have had a daughter, that a part of myself died with her – but I could protect my nieces and nephews until I drew my last breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the scandalously late update! Provided there are no more glaring exceptions, the last few chapters will be upload by the weekend. 
> 
> If you think this work is deserving of kudos or a comment, your feedback is greatly appreciated!


	40. Logic

I did not meet their leader, the Hagraven, for several moons.

I had quite forgotten about them but, when left in her company, I did not fear for my life.

"You would not waste resources if you were simply going to kill me," I argued.

"Reason, logic and intuition will take you far," she said.

"I feel like I have only ever travelled backwards."

A Hagraven’s laugh, cruel and cunning, is not pleasant to hear.

I prefer it over his voice.

"Your spirit will see you survive much worse."

"Such as becoming one of you?"

"Do you wish to?" she asked.

"...Not yet," I said.


	41. Lying Dormant

I will admit that Hagravens seem almost motherly at times.

It should be impossible, but they care for their families no more or less than any other person.

No decent person, at least.

If in their own way.

"What do you seek in the stars, child?" she asked.

My sign is that of the _Lover_ , of course.

"Answers," I sighed.

"To which questions?"

"Ones I already know the answers to. I... I am just not sure if I should share them."

"Which?"

"Both."

A thoughtful hum. "You have been keeping secrets from us."

It was not a question, but I still answered in the affirmative.

"Why?"

"I fear telling you will cause more harm than good, and I have done enough damage as is."

"We will be the judge of that," she snapped. "Speak your mind, if you dare."

"…Not tonight," I denied.

"Then sleep while you still can."


	42. The Devil You Know

Her name was Corbena.

It was given to her by her predecessor.

I think even she has forgotten her ~~real~~ old name.

The first of my secrets I imparted to her was that of Karthspire.

Specifically, the Temple hidden within the mountain, and what would likely happen if they did not leave beforehand.

She said it was easily rectified.

They would put up signs, signs only the Blades would now how to interpret.

I was surprised they were so ready to help.

They had a standing alliance with the Thalmor: information in exchange for supplies.

Sometimes their supplies came in the form of... prisoners.

Broken bodies, siphoned souls, and hollow hearts.

"This deal," Corbena spat, "has been _defiled_."

None know hatred like the Hagravens.

I was not the first nor, I am sure, will I be the last.

They wish to fuel the rebellion in the The Reach, as well as the Civil War.

Both will end in blood.

Corbena has long since cut our losses.

"Soon," she promised, "they will understand that The Reach belongs to the Forsworn!"

"Who?" I asked.

Corbena smiled.

Have you ever seen a Hagraven smile?


	43. Chapter 43

Another concern of mine was that of the Glenmoril Coven.

I learned that one should _never_ mention that name in the company of a Hagraven.

" _TRAITORS!_ " Corbena shrieked. "We worship Hircine, yes, but _they_ serve only themselves. 'The Reach is lost,' they caw, and so they sought, long ago, to tear down the pillars that support Skyrim. Still, they wait while we, small as it may seem, were victorious!"

"Until the Stormcloaks came."

"Yes…" she wheezed. "Until the Stormcloaks came."

"I... have only ever heard second-hand accounts of what happened within the walls."

"Would you condemn another to endure your past?" she snapped.

"Gods, no!"

"And I would likewise spare you the same fate."

"You… were there."

A tumultuous pause. 

"I _died_ there."

Turning to face me, she tore the feathers from her chest to reveal the Briarheart, black as blood, twined with horned, white briars that made her flesh cry with every breath.

To exhale is to sigh.

There never seemed to be enough air.

"Looks like we all have briars ‘round our hearts."

"Briarheart indeed," Corbena agreed.

Her smile will, one day, become mine.


End file.
